


Small Miracles

by sumhowe_sailing



Series: rafflesweek2018 [1]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Ableism, Angst, M/M, rafflesweek, the descriptions of violence aren't really that graphic but they're there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-29 05:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13920384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: For the rafflesweek18 prompt: "What if Raffles and Bunny escaped from the Boer War alive?"Chapter 2 for the rafflesweek19 prompts: "I couldn’t talk to a soul for thinking of you.” / “A new burrow for us both.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started this a while ago, but wasn't making any progress til the rafflesweek prompt gave me the motivation. Hopefully this is only the first chapter of a longer story, but we'll see. There's another fic with a similar premise by keyboardclicks ("A Quieter Life") y'all should go check out as well!

Life is made of small miracles; for my part, I believe no miracle has ever come down to such small details as the exact placement of the bullet that lodged itself in my dearest friend’s jaw that awful afternoon. The doctors assured me that had the ball been just the slightest bit higher or lower it would have shattered bone and sent fragments of it into his brain—that he would have been dead long before they found us. As it was, the ball only ripped through his cheek, knocking out a few teeth and tearing through his tongue. Had he been looking forward, toward the enemy, it would undoubtedly have gone straight through and out the back of his skull, killing him at once. He wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at me. Thank God for small miracles.

 

At the time of course I had no notion that he would be spared. All I knew as I lie there in the agony of my own wound was that one moment he was talking, and the next he was crumpled on the ground. I pulled myself nearer frantically, suddenly unconcerned about my leg, trying to find out what had happened. I cannot tell you how the sight of his bloody, mangled jaw affected me. How it affects me even now. That combined with his absolute stillness—the blow had knocked him unconscious—had me utterly convinced that I had lost him. I grieved there and then, heedless of the battle going on around us, heedless of my physical pain, heedless of the light slipping away and the gunfire dying.

This grief may seem premature now that the passage of time allows us to look back with whatever good sense we have. No, I had not checked for a pulse or tried to find the entrance wound or even tried to stem the flow of blood. It simply hadn’t occurred to me. Perhaps it seemed fitting to me at the time that my hero should die a heroic death. Perhaps I had simply hoped it had been instantaneous: that he had been spared the slow and painful death that seemed to be in store for me, either bleeding out on the field or dying of infection in the make-shift hospital. At any rate, my grief did no harm; and given that I am convinced it was my sobbing that led those searching for survivors to us, it may even have done us good.

When that party of behind-the-scenes heroes arrived, the first thing they did was to hush me, lest more of the enemy was about. And when they found I could not will myself to stop, they gagged me. In the sudden quiet—I had not realized how voluble my grief had been—I thought I heard a sound that nearly stopped my heart. It seemed to my feverish imagination that Raffles was groaning! Yet before I could ascertain the truth of it, he and I were carried away on stretchers, too far apart for me to hear if he made another sound. When they deposited me in the tent that passed for a hospital, I could not make Raffles out in the dense crowd of bodies around me, and there were far too many moans for me to pick out his, no matter how desperately I wanted to.

Day after day, hour after hour, I took every chance to inquire about him. I asked everyone in sight if they had seen the man I’d been found with, if they knew where he was. But no one had the time to keep track of such trivial details. Those poor harassed too-oft forgotten heroes! How they must have suffered such desperate hope, from how many such as I—and how little they could do for any of us. By the time my leg had healed enough for me to be sent back to England, I had given up asking after Raffles. Hope had given way to despair. The soft groan that I had imagined to issue from him at that last moment haunted me endlessly, but now I thought it his dying breath. He had suffered slowly after all.

 

 

I would not learn that I was wrong for some months. I had settled in a small country house—far from any place haunted by my memories of A.J. Raffles. I became an utter recluse. I went nowhere and saw no one; I surrounded myself with novels, fictions, fantasies to lose myself in now that I had nothing else to lose. I could not bear to read the papers. Every word about the war drove me mad with anger and grief. I shut myself away from it all for as long as I could.

After some time, a letter arrived summoning me to London to settle my pension. Some quirk in the paperwork demanded my physical presence to sort it out, and I had no choice but to go. The train was melancholy: the city, dismal. I sulked when I arrived at the office, letter in hand, only to be told I must wait. My leg pained me awfully in those days, sitting or standing, and waiting was the very last thing I wanted to do. And yet how thankful I now am for the hour they left me in that entrance hall, crowded with men with injuries of every variety. I had claimed a spot on the hard oak bench near the window and was glaring absently at the street. I must have seen a hundred faces go by as I sulked there, each blurred and indistinct in the murky light of my indifference. All of them but one. I do not know how long I stared at him before I knew what I was seeing. There, opposite me, leaning in the doorway of a tobacconist’s shop, looking older and wearier than I’d ever seen him, was Raffles.

I did not, could not, believe my eyes at first. A hallucination, born of longing and the turmoil of being once more in our city—a ghost—a miracle. He did not seem to see me. I doubted, now and then, whether I were really looking at Raffles, or merely an old bearded man who resembled him. It was insane to suppose for even a moment that he could really be there. And yet…and yet…

I grabbed my cane and stood abruptly, wincing as my leg protested this fresh abuse. I hurried to the door, ignoring the muttering of those around me. I half expected the apparition to have vanished by the time I made it to the street, yet there he was. Still leaning in the doorway of that shop as if he had nothing better to do in all the world. It occurs to me now that he didn’t. I hobbled towards him as quickly as I could. He didn’t even look round until I practically threw myself on him in an embrace.

“A.J., can it really be you? Alive after all that?”

His hands—bonier than I had known them—gripped my shoulders, and pushed me, kindly but firmly, away. I looked to his face, searching for I do not know what. He appeared old and tired and worn, it is true, but he had appeared to me that way before. It had been an act at the time, mostly, but the light in his eyes had given it away. There was no such light now. His eyes looked just as weary as the rest of him. I do not know what he saw in my features as he met my gaze. At length, he released my shoulders and cradled my cheeks, gently, gently, as if afraid I would break, and stroked one thumb along my cheekbone.

“Come home with me,” I blurted out, seizing one of his hands and lurching away from the shop. I was amazed that he followed so meekly, without a word of protest, only tugging to get me to slow down so he could slide his arm through mine and we could hobble on together with as much dignity as two old dogs like us could muster. I hardly know what happened as we wound our way through London to the station. We may have walked in silence, the moment too overwhelming for words. More likely, I may have talked his ear off. It wasn’t until we were on the train and the reality sank in—he was _here_ , he was _alive_ , we were together, we could go back to things as they’d been before—that the extent of his silence registered in my mind.

“But A.J. you must tell me all about it. How long were you in that hospital tent? When did you get back to London? What have you been up to since you returned?”

He shook his head.

“Raffles, please, say something, it’s unbearable.”

He shook his head again.

“At least—at least tell me you’re glad to see me!” His silence was unnerving. I believe he saw that I was growing hysterical, for he took my hands and stared at me with such emotion as I’d never seen from him before. He mouthed the words but did not speak. Trembling, I raised my hands to caress his cheeks as he’d held mine earlier, trying to convey that that had been enough. It wasn’t until my fingers found the scars beneath the beard he now sported that I began to understand.

“A.J.—are you—”

I could not finish the thought. It was too horrible. Raffles, my Raffles, the man who could talk me into anything, who could talk his way out of any situation, the man whose easy charm and wit had made him the darling of the country for years—My dawning understanding must have shown clearly on my face, for at last he nodded, looking older and wearier still. He would never say another word again.


	2. A New Burrow for Us Both

I had not realized how deeply I had retreated into my solitude, how utterly I had disregarded every human feeling, until I had found Raffles again. After my terrible realization that he would never speak to me again, I had settled into silence with him. Those quiet minutes on the train seemed to stretch forever, a small forever that showed what the rest of our lives would be. And then--

“Oh! My pension! Oh AJ I completely forgot! We’ve got to go back to London. Do you mind awfully?”

He looked at me with something almost like amusement, a spark of life back in his tired eyes, and gave a slight shake of the head. It was true, I had forgotten all about the sole reason for my trip to London. The moment I had seen Raffles, everything else was gone from my mind. But there was another reason I derailed our trip; I had suddenly remembered the wild state of decay my home was in.

Alone, it did not matter if I strewed every bit and bob over every surface. Alone, it did not matter if you could not find a place to sit or a clean dish anywhere. But what would Raffles think of me if he walked into such a mess and knew how I had been living these last months? But how could I take him home with me at all without letting him see the disaster I dwelled in? Panicking over this, I dragged Raffles through London, finding excuse after excuse to keep him there. Settling the paperwork--a process which had seemed interminably slow before--took hardly any time. I insisted on treating him to dinner; this, which I had intended as a kindness, as an homage to our prior lives, turned out be one of the many small cruel mistakes I would make as our lives settled in together.

Raffles, who all day had been so meek and had followed me so readily, resisted my initial invitation to dine together. I thought perhaps it was out of consideration of my slim wallet or out of anxiety to avoid old acquaintances. I did not consider until we were seated the difficulty dining out would present to him. The beard Raffles had grown in the time since I’d last seen him effectively hid most of the damage he had endured; when his jaw had been shattered on the battlefield, he had lost not only his tongue but half his teeth. He could no more ask for the menu than he could chew the fine steak he had once been accustomed to order. I was just stumbling over myself to apologize for my foolishness when the waiter approached us. I asked for a menu and sent him off, then looked back to Raffles. He was, not slumped, never slumped, but leaning lax in his chair, gazing at me. I apologized profusely for my oversight: he merely shook his head. I was unsure what to make of that. The next few minutes were a strange blend of contrition and relief and sheer amazement. It had been hours since I had seen him across the street, but it was still astonishing to think that he truly was here. 

After we had muddled through dinner, I was looking for one last way to delay having to go home. Part of me still feared Raffles’ scorn when he saw my rooms, but it was more than that. Part of me half-believed that this was some complex hallucination brought on by the airs of nostalgia and the London smog. I feared that the moment I stepped through my own door, the dream would dissipate and I would be alone again.

“AJ, shall we go for a walk?” I was accustomed by now to his silence. His arm threading through my own was answer enough. It was a slow walk through these emptying twilit streets. My cane tapping on the cobbles and our shuffling feet were far from the only noise, but they were all the world to me. 

We were aimless that night. I cannot say we were reveling in each other’s company. I cannot say it was simple reminiscence. How can I describe to you the unspeakable import of that evening? That clinging, quiet goodbye I was so afraid I was making? How can I tell you how desperately I wished for younger legs to walk upon? 

But we were neither of us young anymore. Damaged by time and life and each other, we eventually needed to rest. The bench we chose overlooked the Thames, sparkling as it was with gentle lamplight. On the opposite bank I could hear a party of young men laughing uproariously, their merriment hanging in the air long after their silhouettes disappeared.

“Raffles. Oh Raffles. How I’ve missed you.”

He squeezed my hand, and I understood.

“You will come live with me, won’t you? I’m not pulling you away from anything here?”

His rueful shake of the head could have meant so many things. Did mean so many things.

“I’m so sorry, AJ.” I hardly knew what I was apologizing for. So much had happened--not just in these last months but in all the time we had known each other. The past was truly making itself felt that night, and I could not bear the weight of it. “Can you ever forgive me?”

He seized my hand with such violence that I was startled into looking up at him. There was a fierceness in his eyes, a determination in his brow. But an absolute gentleness in the way he cupped my cheek and pressed his forehead to mine. 

“Thank you,” I breathed, reaching up to hold him. A slight shake of the head. No, of course he did not want thanks. 

When we drew away from each other a long moment later, I sighed.

“AJ, I’ve been thinking. I do want you to come home with me--only, where I’ve been isn’t home. That miserable little hovel where I’ve been hiding is hardly fit for one grown man, and certainly  not for two. What would you s--think--what would you think about us finding a new home together? Our next Ham Common, only a little further out in the country. A new burrow for the both of us.”

I glanced toward him, holding my breath. In spite of my attempt at nonchalance, I was terrified he might reject the idea. Amusement sparkled again in his eyes as he reached once more for my hand.  _Silly rabbit_ , I could practically hear him say, _of course I will make my home with you_. His simple nod was the most eloquent sentence that had ever passed between us.


End file.
